


We Two Alone (and Chauncley)

by lonelywalker



Series: A Particularly Bad Period in History [6]
Category: Miracle Workers (TV)
Genre: Coda to 2x08, Established Relationship, Father-Son Relationship, M/M, wildly anachronistic fantasy history
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-02-22 22:26:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23301358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lonelywalker/pseuds/lonelywalker
Summary: “You’re my son,” he found himself saying. “You’ve got four good limbs and a decent head on you. I’m not asking you to win a war, Chauncley. I’m asking you to at least try to stay alive.”
Relationships: King Cragnoor & Prince Chauncley, King Cragnoor/Lord Chris Vexler
Series: A Particularly Bad Period in History [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1698502
Comments: 4
Kudos: 16





	We Two Alone (and Chauncley)

King Cragnoor the Heartless was many things - a valiant swordsman, a brilliant strategist, a murderous tyrant - but no one had ever accused him of being a good loser. As a young prince he had been given the opportunity to master a great many skills, from falconry to languages, but failure had never been on any tutor’s curriculum. There was a reason for that. Peasants could stumble and blunder through failures six times before breakfast, laughing them off each time. Peasants had the luxury of being humble, modest, self-effacing losers who, regardless of whether they solemnly shook hands or exchanged middle fingers, would have many more opportunities to lose again. For princes, failure was almost always a terminal diagnosis.

He lingered in the stables, snapping at the young squire who tentatively proffered assistance and then vanished before more than words could be hurled at him. The horses were all bred and trained for battle, with no fear of death or any dread of what tomorrow might bring. It was comforting to be with them, between their steaming bodies, and talk to them in meaningless phrases that they nodded at regardless. What good boys they were.

In his younger days, avoiding his older brother and sister for the good of his health (all their healths, really), he might have been tempted to stay there, half buried in hay, hidden from the prying eyes of all those who were supposed to keep a boy prince out of trouble. Even now it was a wrench to leave, stepping out into the frigid darkness of the castle grounds. It was late, and apart from the guards at their posts, no one was training or running chores at this hour. He took a route past the training grounds, though, with half a mind to draw the sword at his hip and take out some of his frustration on whatever came to hand. You always knew where you were with swords. Sleep was a very different, untameable beast. 

The only thing pulling him inside, to his chambers and to bed, was what he would once have termed a regrettable weakness: a longing for warmth and companionship, for kisses and lovemaking with someone who called him by his name and let him be a man rather than a king. It was still a weakness, he supposed, but-

Cragnoor stopped and looked over at where the training dummies were stored. There was movement in the darkness. Movement, and an awful lot of yelling.

Two steps closer revealed the unmistakable figure of his son - too short and dressed in far too much finery to be a soldier - and the frankly unprecedented sight of him breathlessly yet relentlessly assaulting a wooden dummy with a practice sword. Cragnoor paused, assuring himself that he hadn’t consumed any opium recently, and then stepped forward, just in time to catch the wooden sword on the upswing, before Chauncley managed to crack his own skull.

“What are you doing?”

Chauncley’s eyes were wide and almost perfectly round. “Father! I didn’t see you there. Just… Just, ah, a little evening constitutional!” He didn’t let go of the sword. Neither did Cragnoor. “Got to, um, set a good example for the men. Grr. Argh. Aggression! Boldness wins battles, as someone said. Was it you? Maybe it was just me.”

“The men?”

“Absolutely. Yes.” Chauncley seemed entirely unabashed by the entire lack of any men, women, or even animals within eyeshot. “After all, discipline is, uh, what you do when no one else is around, right? Someone _definitely_ said that.”

No matter how old Chauncley got, Cragnoor never seemed to gain any more of a handle on his behavior. It was like trying to grip psychological frogspawn. “And this admirable show of discipline and aggression involves telling someone named Archie to ‘fuck right off’?”

“Well. As I’m sure you’ve found, Dad, it’s so much easier to channel aggression when you put a face on your enemy. So, just for example, I’ve personalized my rage against this Valdrogian cur by naming him Archie. And giving him a completely random backstory where he’s, um, made out with this girl I really like, and is also a total fraud who’s completely unfairly using his intelligence, charm, and stupidly good looks to win her over.”

No strategic brilliance was ever required to see right through Chauncley. Especially when Chris had mentioned something about Chauncley spending a lot of time with a peasant girl. Cragnoor hadn’t cared much: even princes needed to sow their wild oats, and at least it kept the ducks away from the war room. But it was a little unusual to see Chauncley so upset in a context that didn’t involve physical feats, and indeed to see him willingly resort to violence, even against a defenseless dummy. 

Cragnoor let go of the sword. “I see,” he said, and took a breath that might have been a sigh, feeling the warmth of his own bed and Chris’s body recede before him. “Try holding it a little less tightly. Stop locking your elbows. All you’re doing is giving yourself blisters. The sword isn’t going to run away from you.”

Chauncley looked at the sword, then at Cragnoor, as though he was seeing both for the very first time. “Um. Okay…”

“And stand so that you’re not going to cleave your own skull in two if it rebounds.” He watched Chauncley gaze down at his own feet and reposition them. Was Chauncley a good dancer? He honestly had no idea and had always assumed Chauncley was an utter failure at just about anything, bar literacy and possibly being able to dress himself. But he saw Chauncley try another strike and heard himself say, “Good,” which seemed… _wrong_. 

He pulled another practice sword from the rack. It seemed tiny and pathetic compared to the steel in his scabbard, the kind of thing you gave to an eight-year-old who was desperate to play at being a knight. “Now what you want to do with a real opponent is follow through. No little tentative jabs, Chauncley, you need to end him as quickly and decisively as possible.”

After half a moment of thinking this might be going well, Chauncley was already shrinking in on himself, lowering his sword. “Dad, I… I really appreciate this, but, I mean… Who am I kidding? We both know in any real fight my best chance is to play dead and hope no one steps on me.”

“There might be a real fight soon. The Valdrogians are coming.”

Chauncley shrugged carelessly. “The Valdrogians are always coming. That doesn’t magically make me into you. I’m not any good at this. I’m not any good at _anything_.”

He looked like he just might burst into girlish tears and Cragnoor fervently wished he had any excuse to simply leave. But this was an hour free from urgent messages and councils, and all the reasons he’d managed to dispatch a weeping boy to the care of kitchen maids and stablemasters before. 

“You’re my son,” he found himself saying. “You’ve got four good limbs and a decent head on you. I’m not asking you to win a war, Chauncley. I’m asking you to at least try to stay alive.”

Chauncley blinked at him. Thankfully, no tears came. “Yeah, but… I can’t fight Valdrogians, any more than you can…” He waved his hand noncommittally, and Cragnoor wondered what he might be imagining. “Trying’s just going to mean I’m all sweaty and out of breath when they run me through.”

This was truly uncharted territory in their conversations. Neither Chauncley’s nerve nor Cragnoor’s patience had ever made it this far before. Cragnoor took a breath. “What about one Valdrogian?”

“What?”

“What if you only have to fight one Valdrogian?” He reached back through time, to the silly romances the kitchen maids would relate to each other while stuffing a chubby little Prince Ethan full of fruit pastries. “This girl you really like… What if you’re trying to escape with her, all you need to do is get to a horse and run away to freedom, and there’s one Valdrogian standing in your way. Kill him and you’re free. Do nothing and you’re both dead.”

“I mean, realistically Al’s got a better chance than I do,” Chauncley said, but quickly nodded. “Okay, I get what you’re saying, but he’s still some massive trained killer and I’m… me.”

“You’d be surprised how many massive trained killers are scared boys younger than you, who don’t really know what they’re doing. Remember, war isn’t a geometry exam. No one is ranking your technique or training. And it's absurdly easy to kill a human being, even the massive ones. Put up your sword.”

At least the hours of fight training some poor tutor had put him through as a boy had left him able to stand on his own two feet with his sword ready, even if his expression was as far from bloodthirsty as Cragnoor could reasonably imagine. “Chauncley, most of the time you’re fighting complete strangers. They have no idea whether you’re a deadly foe or not. So try to look less like you’re about to soil yourself.”

Chauncley swallowed, cleared his throat, and set his jaw. The results were far from fearsome, but it was a step forward. Maybe some shortsighted Valdrogian would take him for a 12-year-old squire who had been well-trained by a knight. 

The idea itched in Cragnoor’s brain - that Chauncley _should_ have been well-trained by a knight, by his father, even if that meant days and months of tears and vomit. But he’d always been small, had been born so small that the healers had assured Cragnoor that the pitiful, bloody lump of subhuman flesh in their hands would surely die. In the following weeks he’d been so busy forging political alliances and fighting off the confusing feelings of anguish that kept tugged at his soul that he was baffled when a midwife came to him and spoke to him at length about his son. His _son_. 

The boy had at least seemed human by then, but tiny and pink and soft, with bright blue eyes like his mother. It would be years before he could walk and talk and hold a sword, and Cragnoor was at a loss to think about what you could conceivably do with anyone before that point.

But the boy was still small after years had passed. Small, with big hopeful eyes and stubby arms that wrapped around Cragnoor’s knee like some fiendish witchery. He was no warrior, that much was clear, and as an heir he at least seemed to be thriving in the company of maids and tutors. Other kings had heirs who could barely wheeze out a breath, or preferred women’s clothes. Chauncley’s biggest idiosyncrasy was that he liked ducks, which was something Cragnoor could handle… Or let the tutors handle. Eventually he would marry again and produce a more conventional heir, or a gaggle of them, and Chauncley would no doubt die from one of those tragic childhood maladies that seemed to carry away infants by the dozen.

Cragnoor had never got around to remarrying, however, and Chauncley had never got around to dying, and here they were.

He pulled his first strike, to avoid lopping off the boy’s head, but Chauncley - maybe motivated entirely by fear - parried with surprising speed.

“And?” Cragnoor said. “You can’t win just by blocking.”

“I’m hoping he suddenly remembers he left a candle burning in his chambers.” Chauncley pushed back and Cragnoor let him, and then suddenly Chauncley switched direction and, intentionally or not, whacked the side of Cragnoor’s knee. “Oh shit. I’m sorry. That was… I don’t know what I’m doing, please don’t hurt me too badly.”

It was impressive just how far Chauncley could back up in the space of a few words. Cragnoor gave him a withering stare, willfully ignoring the sharp pain in his leg, and gestured with his sword. “That was good. Maybe you do know what you’re doing. Again.”

They fought on, Cragnoor holding back enough that Chauncley could block his blows, stay on his feet, and land a few shots. It was the sort of kindly training you normally gave to a child when you were just thankful that he wasn’t either dropping the sword or trying to lick it. The sort of training Cragnoor normally found utterly pointless, but there was some faint attraction in the stinging hurts of Chauncley’s wooden blade on his arms and ribs, and an even fainter feeling that, had they begun this long ago, might have eventually blossomed into pride.

Perhaps predictably, it wasn’t long before Chauncley drew up short, one hand against the castle wall as he gasped for breath, the other extending his sword to try to ward off further attacks. “Just… Give me one second.”

Cragnoor observed him. “This is the most I’ve ever seen you try at anything.”

“Oh, I’ve… I’ve been trying lots of things…” Chauncley coughed. “We built an, um, an astro… thingy?”

“Astrolabe?”

“Yeah, that. And _walks_ , apparently walks are a way to get places, you don’t actually need a carriage? I mean, who knew?”

It felt like Chauncley was on the verge of discovering something that Cragnoor had only been able to approach through the liberal application of his therapist's potions. “This girl,” he said. “You like her.”

“Well, I did absolutely consider your advice to murder her, but on the whole I felt, you know, I can murder her anytime, and I could use a friend now, so…” Chauncley met his eyes for a second, then stared at his sword like it was the most fascinating object he’d ever seen. “Vexler told me relationships between princes and peasants never work out.”

“Lord Vexler is a very wise and insightful man.”

“Mm hm. Oh absolutely. Yes. It’s just that…” Another flick of his eyes. “I’m glad that you have someone.”

“Chauncley.” It was more than a note of warning. It was flaming letters inscribed in the night sky.

“You’ve just always been alone, and you never talk about Mum, and you… You’re my dad and I love you, and I want you to be happy.”

This was apparently what came of giving Chauncley one damn emotional inch. Cragnoor turned away, re-racking his weapon and doing his best to swallow his instinctual anger. “I didn’t know your mother well, but she was very kind to me. So I’ll do you the kindness of telling you to go to bed. Now.”

Chauncley stood there, like some great idiot or even greater hero. “So you think it can work out, then, between a prince and a peasant?”

Cragnoor rounded on him. “No, I don’t think it can ‘work out.’ What does that even mean? You want to get your dick wet in some peasant girl, be my guest. But you’re my sole heir, the crown prince, and you have a greater responsibility, a greater duty, than getting lovesick over some girl who already prefers to swap spit with… with a practice dummy, it seems.”

The boy’s face fell.

“As for Lord Vexler, he wouldn’t take kindly to you referring to him as a peasant.”

Chauncley's eyes clouded over in what might have been actual thought. “So… if I make Al a lady, or a duchess or something, we could be together.”

What demons had he offended to be here on this night? “Go to bed, Chauncley, and take your pathetic dreams with you.”

It occurred to him that he might as well have cracked his sword against Chauncley's skull, given the pained expression that immediately resulted. As the boy slunk off into the darkness, the very picture of a mournful teen who had nothing better to worry about than a broken heart, Cragnoor headed to his own chambers, knowing it was weakness to do so. _Maybe Chris won’t be there,_ he thought, unable to decide whether it was a hope, or a warning against hope. Something in him wanted to be cold and sore and alone, to flagellate himself with his own failure. Something more wanted a warm fire and a soft bed, and a willing body that would offer him solace.

He lingered by the door after he shut and barred it, taking in the sight of him through the curtains: lean and dark amid furs, propped up on his elbows as he read some mighty tome laid on the pillows. 

“It’s a good thing the parish tax records from fifty years ago are such a page-turner,” Vexler called over his shoulder. “You really make a guy wait up for you.”

“You didn’t have to wait.” He unbelted his sword, tossed his cloak over a chair, and sat down to take off his boots.

“Call me a romantic, but I like to get in a little conversation before you start fucking my ass. So why don’t you tell me what’s wrong?”

Cragnoor had to wonder if he was really so transparent, or if Vexler simply knew the advantages of going on a psychological fishing expedition. “Wrong?”

“Normally you come back from battle, you’re bouncing off the walls.”

“I do not bounce off the walls.” Stripping off his clothes was, at least, some relief, although Vexler reacted with alarm.

“What did you do to yourself?”

The marks where Chauncley had landed blows were vivid red and purple. “Chauncley did it. We had an impromptu swordsmanship session outside.”

Vexler frowned and closed his book, sitting up cross-legged. “Unless Chauncley’s secretly been a Valdrogian assassin all these years, you _did_ do this to yourself, just by letting him. What the hell, Ethan?”

Cragnoor rubbed at the bruise on his upper arm. Someday he would discover why Vexler’s impertinence had a tendency to calm him down. “We’re losing. In many ways, we’ve lost. The Valdrogians have superior numbers, superior weaponry. So superior that clever strategy and brave efforts are essentially meaningless.”

“But you have a plan.”

He sat down on the bed with a sigh, feeling the warm weight of Vexler’s arm on his shoulders. “Sometimes you have too much confidence in me, Chris.”

“No, I just know how many times I’ve been positive I was finally going to beat you at chess… And I still never have. You didn’t become king and survive this long to let a little thing like certain defeat stop you.”

Cragnoor gazed into the fire and sighed, shaking his head. “I do have a plan. But not one you’ll like.”

One arm became two, wrapping around his chest, Vexler’s lips in his hair. “I like all plans that end with us alive, and together, with a roaring fire and a soft bed… I don’t even know what animals some of these furs were supposed to come from, by the way.”

“This plan relies on Chauncley.”

He didn’t need to see Vexler’s expression to picture it clearly. “Well… good. That’s good. Anything to stop him moping around the castle like a little lovesick puppy.” A kiss was pressed to his temple. “And I always say you underestimate him. Just so long as he doesn’t have to ask a girl on a date. My cringing muscles are still aching.”

“That will absolutely not be required.” He turned into the next kiss, not as desperate and hungry as he normally was. Vexler was right, tonight was different, _he_ was different. He wanted something without knowing its name or shape, like in those long lonely days before a self-serving tutor slipped _The Iliad_ into his hands and taught him of Achilles and Patroclus, and many more lessons besides.

Cragnoor let himself sink down amid the furs, closing his eyes, his skin tingling where Vexler’s fingertips found his bruises. “Chauncley taught me something I hadn’t realized before tonight.”

“Girls don’t like it when you spontaneously give them handfuls of cash?”

“Apparently relationships never work out between princes and peasants.”

Vexler curled his fingers just a little, enough to dig into the blood-red welt Chauncley had inadvertently knocked into being over his heart. “Well then, it’s a good thing I’m not a peasant. And you, my king, are no prince.”

Those fingers stroked down his body, over skin and hair, until they clasped his cock, giving it a gentle squeeze. Cragnoor breathed, trying to grasp hold of what this feeling might be, this kind of melancholy that in months and years past, in the days before he had a lover, would have driven him to wine and numbness.

“Chris…” he said, not sure how to finish the thought. Seconds passed. “Would you mind if we didn't, tonight?”

The fingers let him go. The furs around him shifted. “Do you want me to leave?” Vexler asked, soft enough that no hint of hurt or confusion or fear ebbed into his voice.

Cragnoor opened his eyes, squinting a little against the light. “No, I don’t.”

He watched Vexler watch him, both hoping for the other to formulate thoughts into words.

“Should we… get into bed, then?”

It was so easy to laugh at Chauncley for stumbling his way through trying to ask a girl out, yet he touched upon just as much awkwardness crawling under the covers with a man he had spent almost every night with for months, a man who knew every inch of his body and a large part of his soul. Still, at least once they were there, once Vexler nestled against him in a familiar, comforting way, head laid on his chest, everything seemed right. Cragnoor shifted, getting an arm free to wind around him and draw him closer. 

“You and I could emerge from the slaughter… we two alone…” He hadn’t thought of those words in years. Decades, maybe. Back in the days when he had the luxury to sprawl out in the castle library and be utterly forgotten by all mankind. But they’d made an impression on him, with that very idea of friendship or brotherly love or passionate _eros_.

Vexler chuckled. “Quote any more poetry at me and I’ll have to call you a romantic.”

“Heaven and hell forfend.”

“We two alone,” Vexler repeated. “And Chauncley.”

Cragnoor sighed, and exaggerated it enough that not even Vexler could take it seriously. “And Chauncley. Although Achilles and Patroclus would’ve both died a lot sooner, dragging him around the plains of Troy.”

“Or not died at all, and spent many happy years sucking each other’s cocks and trying to figure out… I mean seriously, what is this, a beaver?” He tossed it over to Cragnoor, who calmly placed it over Vexler’s tousled head.

“In some quieter time,” Cragnoor said, minutes later, when the sad beaver (or possibly a fox) was thrown to the floor, “I’m going to take you hunting. If you’re especially good, I might not even kill anything.”

Vexler’s finger drew tight concentric circles on his belly. “That isn’t hunting, Ethan. That’s what we humans call a nice Sunday stroll.”

“Nevertheless.”

“But since these aren’t quieter times… How about you teach me a little swordsmanship? Might as well be prepared.”

Cragnoor frowned a little, the danger - the failure - once again all too close. “I’m sure you can handle yourself.”

“I’m not. It’s not that I have to beat you, but let me beat some snotty Valdrogian punk at least.”

“Tomorrow morning, then.” Planning wasn’t always a way to bolster confidence. “Chris? If everything goes to hell, you protect Chauncley. I won’t let them touch you.”

Vexler almost laughed: a muffled, choked-off sound. “And who protects you, my king, my love?”

And there it was, that unknowable, unnamable thing he’d been searching for, longing for, and could only recognize when it was right there in front of him, holding him in its arms: the feeling of finally being safe, no matter how close swords and spears came to ripping apart flesh and bone.

“You do,” he said, and meant it.


End file.
